


i don’t know this melody but i love your words

by stripped-down-to-skeletons (and_the_devil_laughs)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, fob - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Bandslash, Grinding, M/M, Peterick, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_the_devil_laughs/pseuds/stripped-down-to-skeletons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick has lyrics running around his head and anxiety sits like a hot iron in his chest and he really can’t seem to get any sleep. Pete helps him out, like any friend would. </p><p>This is a pretty sappy fic but whatever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don’t know this melody but i love your words

**Author's Note:**

> Another import from my fic blog! Note: I wrote and am writing the following lyrics, and, also, I wrote it over a couple of nights specifically between the times 4-5 am. However it also includes a lot of grinding so I think that makes up for any mistakes. Enjoy ^3^

   
“Not enough words, scared to shatter by the attention,  
Braver than the most heroic who doubts every decision  
made of all the finest qualities, godly voices echo and atheists start to believe  
Playing music to a bass and making melodies that last centuries  
Lighting fires in other’s, never believes a word of praise  
Even the best cry, but not all can bleed music onto a page”  
   
\- Unpublished lyrics  
   
—  
   
Van days aren’t very fast, not when the road is clear, not even when you’re entertained or when you have a bunk to lounge on, and certainly not when you have such stunning lyrics running around your head that you need to get them out. The lyrics in question were Pete’s, and Patrick didn’t need to edit them to better them because, honestly enough, they were too perfect. They left Patrick a bit empty, and he wasn’t sure how that works, because he couldn’t get them out of his head, and adored them, and really wanted to sing them – no matter, he thought, a bit sad as he folded into himself. He was settled into his bunk, which happened to be closer to the floor than the roof, and he was pretty sure it was past two am. He didn’t want to check the time, because then he would know that he’d have been up too late, and the anxiety in his chest would only get worse.  
   
The show they had was still another half day away, but it was a big arena, and as was normal with Patrick, he had his doubts. His doubts were mostly in himself, because Fall Out Boy never let him down (only he ever did). It wasn’t going to mean anything as soon as that song hit the stage and everyone started to sing along, and, of course, when Pete gives him an encouraging head-bump or kiss on stage to tell him he’s being silly and of course it’s going great. Things always end up fine.  
   
The night before is always a nerve-pulling ordeal, especially at the start of a tour. It’s a kind of strange quiet that Patrick always seems to find himself in, gazing out onto the stars that look like galaxies and wondering how little his problems truly are. The nights before are always surreal, always off in some way. And then there were Pete’s lyrics, which were really nice, and maybe strong enough to make his eyes a bit wet. Patrick squeezed his eyes, seeing stars against the lids, and the moister subsided enough when he decided to let loose and open them again. The dark surrounded him, smothering in a way that was stale and familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, but he could feel the highway and somehow it resonated with his anxiety and it was very surreal, he thought.  
   
Patrick pulled a deep breath, through his stomach, and counted to ten before letting out a sigh that was instantly regretted. He cringed at how loud he was. Everyone was asleep, all in their own bunks (Pete’s being above his). Nothing came of it after five, ten, twenty seconds, and his shoulders rolled back in relaxation. He looked at the roof of his bunk and the sliver of light that shone at intervals between the edge of the top bunk and the curtains that were currently as closed as they could possibly be.  
   
He wasn’t going to be getting sleep tonight, which, hey, wasn’t exactly news, but it never failed to disappoint him. He was going to wake up late again. He was going to worry, and it was going to be obvious, and he still would have lyrics in his head from a song that has no melody because they had never been sung before.  
   
He huffed again (making sure that he was quiet this time) and then slowly drew back the above-averagely weighted curtain. The little rings made a small sound that made him cringe a bit, but they weren’t too loud.  
   
He looked at the floor, praying to five different gods that he wasn’t going to step on something unholy and/or disgusting or painful. He flattened his oversized sleeping shirt and let his eyes adjust to mediocre lighting and the feeling of independence that one often gets from standing when they were sitting down for a very long time.  
   
Patrick automatically huffed a little when he heard Joe snore.  
   
“Trick,” he heard, a sort of whisper, and he looked over to the bunk above his. Pete was fiddling with his curtain by that point, which drew back with less grace than Patrick would have handled the situation with. From what little he could make out with his crappy eyes and the darkness and strange intervals of highway light, Pete was looking at him while perched on an elbow and dressed in a tank-top, and it was really too dark to see anything else. He could see Pete’s eyes, and he had a sense that they were very awake and very aware and incredibly piercing in the stale darkness.  
   
They said nothing to each other for a good ten seconds, Pete readjusting to be in a position to stand from his bunk, and Patrick shuffling on his feet and not having much to say – well, nothing he wanted to articulate at two-thirty in the morning and sweet jesus he looked at the time. The digital clock at the far end of the bus leeched into the darkness and when he caught sight of it, he squeezed his eyes shut again and muttered a curse while letting his head droop. “Fucking hell…”  
   
“You can’t sleep?”  
   
“Not really… jesus, it’s past two…”  
   
“Are… you okay?”  
   
“I’m-I’m fine. It’s just late.”  
   
Pete, Patrick heard, was shuffling, and a second later he was standing beside Patrick, ruffling his hair just a bit (certainly not enough to upset, just enough to mess with). “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep either. Not a big deal, who needs sleep anyway?”  
   
“Shh, for heaven’s sake,” Patrick hushed, feeling more than irrationally annoyed at Pete than he wanted(he reasoned it was his not being able to sleep, or maybe it was the lyrics speaking to him from that song he hasn’t sang. He didn’t quite know). “Just… shhhhhhh… “  
   
“You know they’re basically dead, right? I could blast 5sos and they’d still be like that.”  
   
“But… just… Joe and Andy… they’re actually sleeping… so, let’s not, you know… ruin their sleep because that’d really suck and I’d feel bad and I can’t… don’t wanna chance… take a chance.”  
   
Patrick was tired, evidently . He couldn’t articulate very well (nothing new for him, and Pete could practically be heard smiling so brightly over the fact that he was too tired to make a good sentence), and he was still a bit unsure what to do with himself now that Pete was there, and now that he might have to talk and say things and he wouldn’t be able to say anything that might not be upsetting to him because he was up at nearly 3 in the morning with a ball of anxiety pushing out all of his internal organs and weird thoughts of being lonely and thinking about the sad things Pete had written over their careers. Oh, dear god, get a hold of yourself, Patrick scolded himself, because those were real tears (slight, albeit) pushing over his eyelashes and he was too focused on what he was going to say to stop them from happening, and now he had neither anything to say to Pete (who he felt looking at him, in the dark, as patient as ever and would ever be because Pete was that type of guy, which Patrick loved) nor the dignity of having not been caught crying in the middle of the night (morning). Patrick cried pretty silently, and it wasn’t really crying more as it was misting, and he figured it was a great chance that Pete didn’t know, so he decided to walk past him with the touch of a shoulder and move into the loosely defined room known as the “living room”. There was a TV that was literally apart of one of the walls, and a sectional seat that was very much like a sofa that lined the other three walls . A small table sat in the center, which had nothing of value on it (that could be seen). This place easily doubled as a bedroom  
   
“So, the documentary channel, eh?” Pete started, since Pat was being pretty quiet. He found the remote that Patrick was looking for.  
   
“Mmm-hmm,” Patrick hummed because, fucking hell, stop crying, it wasn’t that fucking sad of a song, and wait, is Pete going to turn the overhead light on?  
   
“No, hey, leave it off!” He said, reaching for the light switch that was already on it way to “turned-on” town. Not that it would have mattered, not when his voice was strung with wetness and heavy with a strange sadness that sounded and felt uncomfortable and was distraught.  
   
He caught a good look at Pete now (who was wearing the nicest sleeping pants he’d ever seen him in, being the fluffy type normally reserved to the women’s section, but since when has Pete ever given a damn?) and obviously Pete had a pretty good view of Patrick, whose hands had returned to his sides in a nervous manner.  
   
“Just turn off the lights, okay? It’s hurting my eyes.”  
   
“Hey, hey,” Pete said, turning off the light because obviously he would do that for Patrick. There wasn’t a lot of room between them so it was pretty fast that he’d taken the 1/3 of a foot to be within hugging distance of Patrick, who really shouldn’t be surprised by Pete’s affection but still is. Pete liked physical closeness, and he always consoled Patrick with a hug.  
   
“Pete, no, really, I’m fine!” Patrick swears, which would have been convincing had his voice been dry. “I mean it’s late and I’m —”  
   
Pete sighed deeply (which somehow made Patrick stop his mumbling), with his arms around Patrick’s shoulders because he really is a short guy and it’s very convenient for cuddling purposes. He still had his remote so he turned on the television and it lit them in a glow that stung. The volume was pretty low, but the sound’s of a rerun of something-teen-drama was going and they really couldn’t care less.  
   
Pete didn’t say anything just yet, just unfolding his arms so to let go of Patrick. As it was pretty routine anyway, there wasn’t a need to confirm when Pete pulled him along to the sofa. He moved a few pillows and sat in the corner, and Patrick followed in suit, sitting practically on Pete with an arm around the waist and not a fuck to give about the background noise that was the TV.  
   
Pete was watching Patrick’s face, and Patrick was really embarrassed that he couldn’t stop himself from feeling nervous with Pete draped around him, and even more self-conscious when Pete could feel his stomach. His breathing was heavier. His chest was filled with the apprehension of anxiety that was illogical and even more embarrassing.  
   
Somehow Pete was delicate enough not to overtly point out anything, and somehow there had been a minute or half that went by with only the sound of the road to be heard and the feel of America passing in their feet.  
   
“Dude, I’m not going to punch you, if that’s why you’re not talking.”  
   
“Why should I talk?”  
   
“I don’t know, maybe because you’re crying in the middle of the night –“  
   
“—Morning—”  
   
“— Whatever. I am pretty sure you get my meaning.”  
   
Pete’s hand ruffled Patrick’s shirt, pressing his fingers gingerly into his midriff to emphasize and, probably, soothe. Patrick liked it, but didn’t feel like admitting to that or that being the reason he lost his thoughts. He swallowed. “What if I don’t need to talk? What if I just want to… I don’t know… sleep…? Not be awake at fuck-no o’clock…”  
   
Pete could dig graves with his eyes if he wanted. He was digging up something, right now, as he stared into Patrick’s eyes. Patrick swallowed nervously as if he were biting a bullet, and Pete’s fingers ruffled his shirt enough to bring it up, and his fingers were on Patrick’s flesh and sweet hell that’s all it takes to melt him, that’s all there is to making his mouth go dry. As he parts them, drawing his tongue over as quickly as possible so that maybe Pete wouldn’t notice, he shudders into some sort of explanation.  
   
“I’m… I can’t really tell you… everything…” his eyes falter, because they’ve been hollowed by Pete (whose hand was working tediously at Patrick’s shirt and was an index finger away from being fully flushed against his stomach). “I don’t really know everything… I’m just… sad, I guess, and I want to sleep but keep thinking about the gig tomorrow, how much I’m scared to be up there again… scared to talk, when I’m trash at it… I… well, I want to sing, too, those, sort of, lyrics that you wrote… it’s making me empty when I think of them, and I don’t know why— ah, god, Pete!”  
   
Pete was a great listener and was letting Patrick talk at his own pace, his own rhythm. His, hand, however, was on his stomach, fingers rubbing at the flush right above his pelvic bone. Patrick found himself leaning into Pete a bit more, and his hand was haphazardly close to Pete’s leg, his knee and, nope, he was already holding onto him.“It’s okay, Trick – keep talking to me, I promise I’m listening… go on,” Pete urged, then leaned in to Pat’s inside ear, whispering, “and tell me to stop if I’m going too far, okay? Same rules like last time.”  
   
Patrick wanted to shudder, to writhe a bit, to respond to the sensation of having Pete’s massaging hands on his nerves, to the breath against his neck and ear, to the lips and slight stubble that were ghosting over his jaw, ear, neck… but he didn’t. His nose grazed Pete’s cheek, and he nodded in understanding as he swallowed deeply, preparing to not moan or call out or make some horrendous sound when he next spoke.  
   
“I… jesus, Pete –” Pete tugged himself closer to Patrick, and his hand was now on his hip bone, his naval, above the hem of his pants. “ – I just… I can’t get your lyrics out of my head… I… I want to sing them. I want to not feel them, because somehow they make me sad and happy at the same time…”  
   
Patrick bites his tongue when Pete presses his lips to his neck, closed off and pulling away slowly, inching his hand closer to his other side of his hip while at the same time drawing Patrick in. “They were meant for you,” Pete whispers, and Patrick squeezes his knee but is slowly turning into the sensation of Pete. “They’re exactly how I see you…”  
   
“Oh god,” Patrick nearly chokes, Pete’s lips pressing lower onto his neck. They part a bit, and the pressure from his kiss, he knows, will leave a bruise, and he’s sucking softly and slowly and it’s very clean and neat and Patrick can’t stand how much it coils him up and how very hard he is.  
   
Patrick huffs loudly, crying out, and boy does he have a voice because even his whimpers are music. He covers his mouth with both hands, pulling away from Pete, afraid of sounding too excited.  
   
Pete looks him in the eyes, and the lyrics are there. They’re always there, and they always shatter him just a bit.  
   
“Go on,” Pete says, and it’s obvious that he whispered it to put Patrick at ease, and it does a bit, but he’s really keyed up and there’s a heat rising in his cheeks and pants that’s making it tremendously difficult to concentrate.  
   
“I… I don’t have any more words,” Patrick’s voice was soft and small, and a bit wet, but mostly just a bit exhausted. “ I’m… hell, it’s so late, I can’t tell what I am.”  
   
Pete smiles a bit, and he looks a bit tired too, but there’s a rush in both their veins and they both see that. What else would best friends expect from each other?  
   
“It’s okay if you can’t tell, and it’s okay to be scared of life, Pattycakes,” Pete chuckles a little, and Patrick’s lips turn up a tiny degree.  
   
“Thanks, Pete.”  
   
“Do you want me to…?” Pete gestured to Patrick’s obvious erection, and Patrick just nodded affirmatively.  
   
“Tell me if I go too far?” Pete says, leaning in and resting a hand on the Patrick’s shoulder. “I know we’ve done this before but I don’t want you to think this is expected or I’m putting too much on you or anything like that.”  
   
“I understand, it’s all okay. You don’t have to worry about me freaking out over this or thinking you’re, I don’t know, using me or anything.”  
   
Pete leaned in and pecked his cheek, smiling, reassuring. “I got ya, Trick. Tell me if you’re uncomfortable, okay?”  
   
“I got it…” Patrick drops his eyes when he realizes the reality of the situation, and how this was going to be the second time they both went so far. Platonically, they could snuggle, and kiss a bit, but this was a bit stronger than that. More potent. They both knew that they were still friends, but sometimes it’s hard to tell what type of love you feel for a person when it’s so intense.  
   
“I’ll…” Pete pushed him back, gently, and he rested at an angle on some large pillows. “I’ll say the word if I can’t handle it.”  
Patrick felt a lot like a flipped over turtle, all exposed and naked (despite not actually being naked) and acutely aware of being hard. He couldn’t meet Pete’s eye at this point, not even when he leaned in to kiss his neck. He thought it was a bit strange that the night would end up like this when all things lead back to him being upset over some lyrics. Go figure.  
   
“Pete…” He whispered, Pete’s right hand on the material of his sleep pants. Pete opened his lips and sucked on Patrick’s collar bone, and stroked his hand over Patrick’s dick. “Jesus, fuck…”  
   
Pete hummed, laughing. Patrick cursing was still hilarious, no matter what situation. His hand started to palm with more pressure.  
   
“Mnn…” Patrick shut his eyes against the glowing room, panting because Christ, he’ll never get used to Pete’s hands touching him like they were. “Oh, fucking hell…”  
   
Pete felt him from one side of his pants, gently palming because, Patrick figured, somewhere in his hazy and horny thoughts, that he liked teasing just a bit. It didn’t much matter because these were special circumstances because he was exceptionally turned on, and there was something about the depth of Pete’s kiss on his neck, and the way his other hand was holding his, that made everything feel like too much and, yeah, he was embarassingly close to coming.  
   
“I… god fuck, Pete, stop.”  
   
Pete stopped, hands hovering because he was careful and thoughtful that way. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to do anything if you—”  
   
Patrick kissed Pete above his ear, in his hair, smiling because insecurities are cute on him. “Yes… I just need a minute before… I relive some embarassing moments all over again.”  
   
Pete really shouldn’t have laughed as hard as he did because there was a real chance of waking up Andy, who had learned to sleep through Joe’s notoriously disruptive snoring. He just kept laughing. He didn’t even try to be quiet, resting his head against Patrick’s shoulder because it was oh so funny. And he was very tired.  
   
“Goodness, Pete, try to shut up a bit, won’t you?” Patrick scolded, but it was with a sligh snort because he loved how violently happy Pete can get, and he knocked his head against Pete’s to try and shut him up, which resulted in a rather strong retaliation which ended up landing Pete very much on top with both their crotches touching.  
   
It was suddenly very not funny and Patrick wanted to move, but was a bit hessitant to because he was still in I-can-come-in-under-two-seconds-if-you-eye-fuck-me-enough territory. He swallowed, and Pete smiled because it was obvious how much Patrick loved him. Patrick didn’t mind when he started to slightly circle his hips above him.  
   
Patrick’s voice caught in a whine that made Pete smile with his eyes. Patrick covered his mouth with a hand, flushing, and Pete kissed his hand, where his lips would have been, their foreheads touching when he started to pick up speed.  
   
“Mnn,” Patrick’s muffled moan was picking up, and in all his life he had never been able to keep his volume down. He was a singer, for christs sake, it was just natural for him to want to put his voice into any and everything.

“Shit, Pat…” Pete said from the back of his throat, thrusting a bit more. “Oh, God…”

Pete heard his name, muffled, and when Patrick closed his eyes with a shudder, he came as well. Their huffs of boiling enthusiasm drew out, both breathless from holding their tongues like they did.

Pete slumped on Patrick, and they were Both a bit warm and needed some water and more importantly, they needed sleep. Maybe even more than they needed to clean their underwear, did they need sleep, because Patrick had to fight to push Pete from him and he moved as easily as a rock would have.

Oh, God, did they need sleep, but there were still syllables to get out.

“Trick, you’re going to be a fucking hero up on stage tomorrow.” Pete pulled Patrick beside him, facing him.

“Thanks… Pete…” Patrick was already on his way to wrapping his top arm around Pete’s torso, resting his hand on his arm.

“I mean it.”

“Hmhaha yeah… I know…”

Pete sighed onto his cheek, humming like the highway. “Sometimes you forget.”

“I know, Pete, believe me… I trust you… I promise, I believe you…”

Patrick was too far gone to hear the words that were being pressed against his skins, but they felt familiar, like a tattoo he would never get but always have. The feel of Pete’s words against his nerves would always be there. They were always, I love you.  
 


End file.
